


What A Lady

by sweetNsimple



Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Asexual Character, Asexual Jack, Based on a Tumblr Post, Dragon Character, F/M, M/M, Magic, Multi, Mute Sandy, Protective Characters, Protective Toothiana, The Groundhog is a JERK, The Guardians are family, The Guardians will always defend Sandy, Trans Character, Trans Sandy, Transphobia, mute character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-27
Updated: 2015-12-27
Packaged: 2018-05-09 15:53:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5545925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetNsimple/pseuds/sweetNsimple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Her name had been Sanderson.  Sanderson Mansnoozie.  At the best of times, they called her “Sandman” and became quite flustered whenever she requested that she be known by “Sandy” at the least, or “Sandria” in more formal moments.</p><p>“That is not your name,” she was told more than once.</p><p>“But you are a man,” she had also been told.</p><p>She was understandably vexed and prone to wandering away from the kingdom’s protective walls in quite a huff.  These adventures were how she came to make her great and daring escape.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What A Lady

When she had been born, the Golden Kingdom had called her its “Dreamweaver”, its “Shooting Star”, its “Wishing Star”, its Bringer of Good Dreams…

Her name had been Sanderson. Sanderson Mansnoozie. At the best of times, they called her “Sandman” and became quite flustered whenever she requested that she be known by “Sandy” at the least, or “Sandria” in more formal moments.

“That is not your name,” she was told more than once.

“But you are a man,” she had also been told.

She was understandably vexed and prone to wandering away from the kingdom’s protective walls in quite a huff. These adventures were how she came to make her great and daring escape.

While the Golden Kingdom ran about, screaming and yelling in general and entirely uncontainable chaos at her loss, frantic among themselves to understand why – oh, why – had the dragon, that dreadful, nightmarish dragon taken her away, her close circle of confidantes and allies somberly shook their heads and sighed amongst themselves.

When they were approached as the Guardians of the Golden Kingdom, its greatest warriors and defenders, to retrieve “Sanderson Mansnoozie”, however, they were quite fast to point out that they knew no one by such a name and were all under the impression that no kidnapping had occurred. 

“From what I witnessed,” Jackson Overland drawled, a curious, joy-filled youth born of the Nightlight and Frost households who possessed a shepherd’s hook of insurmountable wintry power, “Sandy was swept up by a dragon of her own free will. If this ‘Sanderson’ you are looking for is nowhere to be found, I am sad to say I must have been looking in the wrong direction when he disappeared.”

It was confusing to the concerned parties, but they did gossip at length about their Wishing Star’s capture.

There was no disputing that she had seemed willing as the snatching had occurred in the center of Santoff Clausen, the most prominent and magical town within the Golden Kingdom, second in grandeur and genius only to the kingdom’s capital, Lunaria, far to the North. 

Anyone watching – or not running away in terror – would be telling an untruth to say that Sandy had appeared in distress, much less surprised or even combative, when the long, moonless night sky black form of Pitchener, the dragon that haunted them in darkness, glided leisurely down from the sky and took the Bringer of Good Dreams in its wicked claws before gracefully ascending once more and disappearing in the vague direction of the caverns. As a matter of fact, some would feel the urge to admit in all honesty that their Wishing Star had actually seemed very happy and had settled cozily into the seat of Pitchener’s claws.

Dare they even say it, yet some had witnessed Pitchener’s wedge-shaped head with its golden glowing eyes dip toward their Shooting Star and be petted by the golden figure who had been, for many summers, so good to the Golden Kingdom and its subjects’ dreams. 

No one wanted the truth, however. The Golden Kingdom at large wanted its Wishing Star back and were vexed with the Guardians for not doing their supposed duty of retrieving their Bringer of Good Dreams.

“Eh,” E. Aster Bunnymund stated eloquently in reply to several of the Tsar’s administrators and advisers yelling at them. For all that the Pooka – one of a dying race that appeared to be a bipedal rabbit with magical capabilities – had the aesthetics and intelligence of a scholar, dressed dapperly in his green vest and egg-shaped spectacles, Bunnymund was very much done with wasting wise words and diplomatic speech with individuals unconcerned with the Bringer of Dreams and more concerned with the duties the Bringer of Dreams had left behind.

“She’ll be back when everyone’s ready for her,” Bunny finished, broadcasting his short patience with the lot of the Tsar’s staff by falling back on one of his favorite pastimes – painting hard boiled eggs, which baffled everyone who was not from Santoff Clausen to pieces.

“You keep saying ‘her’ – who you think we are looking for and who we are looking for appear to be two entirely different individuals – I say, two entirely different people. We are looking for our Bringer of Dreams, our Shooting Star – I say, our Wishing Star – not some lady. Sanderson has duties to attend to, duties no one else can do. The Tsar and his subjects may go mad – dare I repeat, mad – if Sanderson does not return by nightfall to spread his dreams and good will.” 

The speaker, one Ground Tuesday Hog the Second, had an unpleasant, nasally voice, and a superior air about himself that had not been earned but inherited from his forefather Gobbler Wednesday Knob who had accomplished wealth and prestige almost one hundred and thirty years ago. The rotund figure had an eye piece and yellowing buckteeth in a furry face with a small, pointy nose jutting toward Bunny most unbecomingly. 

It was also somewhat hilarious as Bunny was over six feet and Ground Hog was barely five feet. Bunny tipped his head down to consider the nuisance, ears quirked to consider the detestable creature. “We are talkin’ about the same person, but one of us is bein’ an inconsiderate, obtuse, downright idiotic yobbo and there’s me. And I know this about the Tsar,” he said in a deep, even voice that made Jackson smile, “and his subjects – they’ll all be fine. You act like Sandy hasn’t been outside the kingdom before. There’ll be madness like there always is, but it won’t be ‘cause Sandy went out to get away from mongrels like you.”

Ground Hog sputtered. “How – how dare you! How dare you even be so familiar with Sanderson and, on top of that, to insult me! I say, I am insulted and flabbergasted by your hostility. I expect you to treat me with the respect I deserve or – and I swear, I say, I swear – I will depart!”

“That’d be great, if it was true,” Bunny retorted.

A mighty clap resounded through the chamber as a roaring voice drew their attention away from the doubtless bloodshed that was about to occur. “Friends! Good people of the Tsar’s court.” Nicholas St. North smiled when everyone’s attention was on him and let one arm fall into a loose loop so that his wife and fellow Guardian, Toothiana, could rest her hand in the inner curve of his elbow again. She was a colorful, decorated woman of avian features with beautiful, glistening wings like a dragonfly’s. She also had a saber and a talwar secured in her sari with the loose end of the gold fabric draped over her one shoulder to fall between her wings.

Nicholas St. North himself was a tall, thick man with hair and beard of white, his cheeks and nose rosy, and his arms tattooed with large script, one saying Naughty and the other Nice. He towered over his wife, Jackson, and even Bunny and, if not already foreboding by being such a large man, had secured a shashka on his left and a kingjal on his right, held by the belt of his bright red kosovorotka. While a respectable toymaker possessing untold creativity and incredible childlike wonder, there was no doubt that it would be a terrible idea to be on ill terms with him.

“My wife, Tooth, she would like to say a few words – maybe it will calm you, yes?” He looked down at Toothiana who smiled at them.

She had a very pretty smile, full of straight, even white teeth. She was known for rewarding children who kept their teeth clean and had helped dozens of young ones learn to read and write so that they could keep journals of their lives – the good times and the bad – so that they could always reflect back on them. It was told all throughout the kingdom that, if children gave Tooth their lost teeth, she would cherish them and the memories that each tooth held. 

“Sandy is in no danger right now,” she said in a pleasant, charismatic voice. “And neither are we. She can cast dreams from halfway around the world if she so pleased to. She can even weave them in her sleep.” She tugged and she and North descended the three steps from the platform which remained inhabited by Bunny and Jackson in order to be in closer proximity to their guests.

She came to a stop just in front of Ground Hog, bearing down upon him a warm gaze from her unique eyes. Ground Hog was quick to become flustered under her attention and attempted to smile for her before remembering the poor state of his teeth and slapping his lips shut.

“Concerning other matters, however,” Toothiana began sweetly.

Suddenly, she had her fist curled around Ground Hog’s cravat and had lifted him off of his feet to dangle eye level with her. Her expression was furious and her teeth bared. The Tsar’s court rushed forward in a wave of confused wailing, only to be overwhelmed back into their state of overall uselessness by ice appearing beneath their feet, sending them slipping and sliding and falling in all directions but the one they desired to go in.

Jackson, with the butt of his shepherd’s hook on the ground, smiled rather slyly to himself as frost curled from where his fingers were closed around his staff to where it became sheets of ice on the ground. He breathed and bursts of ice crystals fell from his lips.

“Sandy,” Toothiana growled in Ground Hog’s mottled, furry face. “Her name is Sandy. Once upon a time, when she had been on this earth for only four years, she went by Sanderson, but that time has long since past and she has told you and everyone else that she is no man and she will not answer to Sanderson or Sandman. You may call her Sandy, or, in more formal events, Sandria. She is a woman.”

“A woman?! Pshaw, I say!” Ground Hog cried, scrabbling at her wrist hopelessly. “He may attempt to look like a woman, but we all know what has dangled between his legs since he was born.”

“I care not for her appearance – if she had more hair on her face than Aster and you combined and wore clothing that men wear, as long as she knows she is a woman, she is a woman! What does or does not dangle between her legs is of little importance, especially since you will never be seeing her with her pants down. Do you understand me?”

“Da, I think he does,” North answered for her flailing victim, appearing quite at peace with what was happening to the point of near enjoyment. “My love, maybe now you let him go so that he does not die and we won’t have to visit you in the don-jon. Very dusty there, you would not like it.”

Her eyes locked on Ground Hog’s, she slowly lowered him to the ground in a show of strength that should have been impossible for one who had such slim arms. “I hope we will not have to correct you again,” she hissed, and it did sound like a thinly veiled threat to all who heard it. 

Ground Hog fairly shook in his leather boots, his small, pudgy hands feeling his neck where his cravat had cut bruises into it. “I-indeed, I s-say, I hope we n-never have to speak a-a-gain!”

“Oh, lovely!” She smiled once more, pleasant and sweet to know. “I also hope for such a thing. Please tell our beloved Tsar Mim Lunanoff that we the Guardians always appreciate and look forward to his company. Farewell!”

Quite frankly, as soon as the Tsar’s advisers and administrators tripped and slipped and stumbled their way as best as they could to the large doors that separated the Guardian’s cavernous hearing chamber from the outside world, they were gone with no plans of ever returning.

These creatures, these freaks – they were the greatest defense the Golden Kingdom had? These were the Guardians of Hope, Wonder, Joy, Dreams, and Memories? What hogwash! What slander to the good name of those who were respectable and loyal to the Tsar and those that most closely served it. And, to think, there were more of them questing around the world, the Guardians of Time and Stories!

What awful individuals. Just terrible.

Just terrifying.

~::~

Jackson melted the ice away and lounged back in his chair, one bare foot balanced on an overstuffed arm while the other dangled toward the floor. Although a Guardian and a descendent of the Nightlight household, both of which made him no beggar of any sort, he held fast to the simple ways he had been taught in the Frost household, as the Frost household had been that of beings appreciative of winter and so favoring winter duties that never paid well or were never that recognized. Indeed, Jackson could run through a blizzard without shoes or proper winter wear and be a sight cozier than his companions all dressed as if preparing for a trip to the North Pole where the ice and snow was said to never melt. 

Jackson also possessed the ability to create ice and snow, no matter where he was, and preferred to do so using his shepherd’s hook as a medium in order to focus his abilities. It was what had made him such a promising prospect as a Guardian. 

It was his loyalty, his fierceness, his optimism, and his stubbornness that had won him the position. 

It was also these characteristics that had at first enraged and then eventually ensnared his mate, none other than E. Aster Bunnymund. It was quite a strange match as Bunny made a point often and loudly to declare his preference for spring, where the weather was fair and the earth was just awakening, reviving whatever hope had been lost in the long, cold winter that it conquered each year. Bunny was also quite studious and serious while Jackson was playful and humorous. 

They were known to drive each other wild. 

They were also inseparable. 

Bunny held out a paw and Jackson took it, allowing himself to be pulled effortlessly from his perch and twirled into Bunny’s chest where his Pookan warrior and scholar dipped him slightly, as if they were dancing. Jackson’s laughter rang throughout the chamber, his voice surprisingly deep for someone who appeared so young, and yet it was a contagious laugh that made North chuckle and smoothed away some of the rage still bleeding into Toothiana’s glare as she stared at the doors, as if awaiting Ground Hog’s immediate return.

“G’day, Love,” Bunny rumbled. “You were gone very early this mornin’, where did you go off to?”

“I was in Burgess, playing with the children. Sophia misses you.” He combed his fingers through the fur of his mate’s cheeks before tugging him forward and down so that they were level. Bunny’s mouth, with its shape and flat lips, was not meant to give or receive kisses and so Jack had perfected the art of intimacy without them and instead pressed a kiss between Bunny’s spring green eyes, above the nose of his glasses. “You should join me more often.”

Burgess was Jackson’s place of birth, a small town some miles outside of Santoff Clausen. For Jackson, who used the winds to give him flight, the journey took very little time. For Bunny, who was faster than any beast on land or in the air, the trek was equally swift. 

“Perhaps I will,” Bunny rumbled. “I miss the little ankle biters something fierce.”

Toothiana hummed softly to herself, a tranquil noise that grew into a whistle not unlike a bird twittering. “Today is a good day,” she finally said as she led North up the stairs of the platform and to their designated chairs, as stately as thrones. “I believe hardly anything could ruin it.”

North nodded amicably, as he generally did whenever Toothiana made such statements. “’Tis true. The sun is out, the day is warm – not that I mind when it is not, Jack – and we are surrounded by good people now that we are without unfortunate guests.” He lowered himself into the deep red chair next to his wife and signed pleasantly. “I look at all of my closest friends and I see love, adventure, spirit – fire!” He chuckled. “Good times. Good times.”

“They’re not too bad,” Bunny agreed, one paw resting on Jackson’s waist and the other still holding Jackson’s hand. They were slowly moving into swaying motions that could be mistaken for dancing, led along by Toothiana’s continued casual birdsong. “I’m happy. You?”

Jackson smiled. It was a pretty smile, full of straight white teeth that made Toothiana’s eyes flutter each time. “Never happier.”

“I feel in my belly that Sandy, wherever Pitch has taken her, is happy now also,” North said, his blue eyes looking toward the large stained glass windows that allowed dazzling light to flood the chamber. “’Tis good, she needs happiness. Life has been stressful for her here.”

Toothiana, still singing for the swaying couple, interwove her fingers with her husband’s, bringing him out of his melancholy state. Bringing their hands to his lips, he kissed her knuckles softly before humming along with her, his deep baritone not entirely unwelcome.

It was a good day, after all.

A good day indeed.

~::~

Sandy had known since she was quite small these five truths:

She was the last of a golden race of Star Captains who had descended from the stars, as most of the inhabitants of the Golden Kingdom had at one point or another, on the backs of shooting stars. 

She was a woman, undeniably and without a doubt; she felt it in her core that she was not only feminine but female. 

She had been born with a penis and the reproductive organs of a male.

The above fact meant very little to her and she was still a woman.

She was going to marry Kozmotis Pitchener Black someday, or, at the least, be his greatest treasure.

She had been just ten and five summers when she had discovered this last truth. She had been younger then, more prone to outbursts as being called a “man” and being referred to with “he, his, and him”. Every Sanderson and Sandman and Young Lord had driven her beyond the kingdom walls in tears that had cascaded down her cheeks in rivers of gold.

From the ground, she must have appeared to be riches untold, lying next to the lake mere miles from safety and ignorance. This was what she assumed when she heard the great flapping of leathery wings before claws closed around her like a cage and carried her far away from home. At first, she had been quite terrified and had looked desperately to the kingdom for help. When that did not work, she was very angry and decided to help herself, which was when she took from her body the sand it was made of enough to create a long rope and a large dagger. Tying the end of the rope around one of the dragon’s black claws securely so that it would not come untied or slip off, she wrapped the other end around herself and then, viciously, dug the blade under one of the dragon’s dark, glossy scales, so large that each was bigger than her hand. 

The dragon’s claws jerked in surprised pain enough that she slipped through them and fell through the air, her hands immediately holding onto the rope for dear life as the trees beneath her came closer and closer – 

The dragon turned its huge body, its other clawed foot grasping the rope to cut her fall short, and caught her in its monstrous mouth, large enough to fit two of her.

She was quite vexed and stabbed its tongue until it finally landed in the caverns and spat her out, roaring at her in rage and pain. 

“You little imp!” screeched the dragon in surprisingly subline and genteel tones. It was especially surprising since the dragon was screaming at her and every yell blew a gust strong enough to nearly knock her down.

Its breath smelled of dark chocolate and the kind of spicy red wine she was encouraged to taste on Samhain. Sandy was doubly surprised.

“I should devour you whole and rid the world of such a nuisance,” the dragon snarled, its wings unfurling to envelope the entire cavern. The cavern had already been washed in shadows and darkness; yet, with the true darkness that was the dragon, it seemed that there had been light and that light was now gone. 

All light, except for Sandy, as her golden skin glowed faintly, and the golden radiance that came from the dragon’s eyes and the strange luminescent markings on each side of the dragon’s thick neck. 

They both stood there for some time, her staring up in awe at the fearsome beast while it glowered down at her, poised to attack.

“Well?” It finally asked. “Are you not afraid?”

She shook her head. She had already been afraid and now she was merely in wonder by this creature.

The dragon huffed. “What a pity.” It folded its wings back into its body and held its head in stately manner. “Have you nothing to say for yourself? Screaming or begging or such? You must be a little afraid.”

She frowned and used the sand of her body in order to create images above her head. She had learned to do this when she had been much younger. 

She told him that she was mute, as that was easier to explain than that she was a Dreamweaver, descended from the infamous Star Captains that had directed the stars of the sky that would not be still across the universe, and that there was no use for her race to have a vocal voice, though she could speak to others in their dreams if she so chose to and expanded the energy to. 

The dragon fortunately understood her unspoken language. “I had hoped for at least one scream, but I see you will refuse me even this as well as my own physical health.” It lifted its claws and examined closely where she had stabbed it. Its scales, so dark and glossy, should not have shown blood, especially the small amount she must have pricked, and yet the dragon hummed in dissatisfaction at apparently seeing it. “I hope you understand that this is a problem for me. It is quite difficult to clean under my scales and yet you have injured me where I cannot possibly reach in this form. Also, I do not appreciate you butchering my tongue.”

The dragon, despite lacking the ability to portray human emotions correctly on its strange and angular face, still managed to look at her in such a way that she felt as if it was her fault entirely for injuring the dragon, as if it had nothing at all to warrant such attacks.

It made her temper flare and several symbols dazzled above her head that called the dragon unkind and scandalous things. 

The dragon only scoffed. “Oh, hush, all this tells me is that at one time or another, you were afraid of me, of which I am flattered. Young ladies are always prone to scream and be terrified and – what? What does that look mean? Whatever do those hearts floating above your head mean?”

When Sandy was ten and five summers, she had yet to join the Guardians or be knighted by Mim Lunanoff, who would be inaugurated in later years. The dragon was the first creature to acknowledge her as a woman. 

Her long locks and dresses and round face convinced no one within the kingdom, even strangers and newcomers who were immediately cautioned within the kingdom’s walls by the people of the Golden Kingdom that their Dreamweaver was strange and acted strangely…

For a boy.

In Sandy’s heart, in that moment, beat a strong love for this grotesque and cultured beast. 

She walked toward the dragon and the dragon, curious as to her intentions, drooped its head so that she stood before one of its large golden eyes. 

“Will you stab me in the eye as well? You are strangely vicious for one so curvilinear and dainty. I will let you know now that my eye will heal and I will be quite cross with you.”

Upon her kissing the dragon just beneath its eyeball, it seemed, instead of cross, rather still. 

The dragon did not move or speak or seem to even breathe for quite awhile.

“I fail to understand your intentions,” the dragon said at long last.

She tapped his injured foot until he turned it toward her and she carefully inspected where she believed she had stabbed him. It was slick to the touch and deep red on her hand when she finally found the wound. Taking off her cloak, she mopped at the dark blood and squinted at the space beneath the scale where she had stabbed. There was only darkness. 

“Are you treating my wound? The wound you deemed to give me?”

She nodded and continued to press her cloak to where the blood seemed to be coming in hopes of stanching the flow until the wound could properly close. 

“I see.” The dragon paused. “You are quite queer, I am afraid that I do not understand you.”

She smiled proudly up at the dragon and continued on with what she was doing.

It would do her no good if her future husband died due to an infected wound.

~::~

When Pitchener, otherwise known as Pitch Black, otherwise known as the Nightmare King, also known as “AAAAAH! DRAGON!” – carried her away from the kingdom amidst screaming and chaos, she was four and forty summers old. The caverns that Pitchener inhabited were as much her home as the chambers she kept with the Guardians and the cloud ship she flew across the sky at night. 

Pitchener was as familiar with her body as she was, and still considered her a vicious, curvilinear, and dainty lady. 

She was also familiar with the many forms that he preferred, amongst them being a black stallion shape that he used to steal into the Guardians’ stables and carry her away in the dead of night to the suspicion of no one but her closest friends and comrades. There was also his human form and other humanoid forms that he wore in order to make love to her with, his golden eyes trained on her and her pleasure with gnawing hunger. They were also the forms he held her with, his long arms and long legs cradling her in his lap. He was, in most of his humanoid forms, very tall and very thin, quite opposite of her dwarfish and roundish character. His long fingers brushed through her thick golden locks, scattering sand about the cavern floors, and plaited it over her shoulder so that he could nip and suckle at her throat. She was happy to let him do as he pleased, as his ministrations were always gentle and always soon to turn sinful. 

Pitchener had gone hundreds of years, battling fearlings, nightmare men, and dream pirates, claiming the title of Nightmare King as his own and giving the world at large – not just the Golden Kingdom – reason to fear him and run from his presence, without the touch of a lover.

Sandy knew that, for Jackson, who felt no sexual desire or sexual attraction, such would not be an issue, and that it posed no issue for Bunny who had for centuries been abstinent. For Pitchener, however, who did feel sexual desire and who was attracted to Sandy in a very sexual manner, her spreading her legs and opening her mouth, offering a hand and every other party of her body and soul had reminded Pitchener of a long ignored need and she was all too willing to assuage it. 

She was quite pleased with the womanly core she had created for herself, and how it felt when Pitchener was thrusting into her. She had already known how to use parts of her body to create objects that she could use temporarily, so Pitchener had deemed it fit to show her how to shift shapes. They were both, in the end insubstantial; her dragon lover was created of shadows and she was of sand, dust from the shooting stars her ancestors had herded across the galaxies. 

She loved to fly with him across the sky as a dragon, slightly larger than Pitchener – as female dragons were larger than their male counterparts – and watching his dragon form swoop and dive and glide to impress her – as male dragons did when attempting to seduce a mate. She loved to gallop with him, she a thickset unicorn and him a black stallion. She loved to be the fish in the lake and the dolphins in the distant ocean and she loved who she really was.

A woman.

A woman with a large bosom to match her plump figure and lips between her legs that loved to kiss often with Pitchener’s body. 

She loved to be her true self more than anything else and Pitchener was often subjected to her simply sitting in one place, quietly enjoying herself and then falling asleep where she stood, still enjoying herself. Pitchener would all the while act dispassionately bored and offer small quips now and then if not complaining altogether about the pains she put him through and, honestly, did she not realize how old he was and how he direly did not wish to waste his time doing such a thing?

“I hope you know that I can still devour you,” he enjoyed to mutter as he roused her awake. “I never decided not to.”

He was usually, after such a statement, given a very willing victim to devour, and was generally huffy that she did not see him for the threat he actually was. Huffy, but not adverse to the offer.

When they were not performing coitus, Sandy was silently laughing to herself as she listened to Pitchener go on and on and on, talking to himself about many a thing – from the weather to his next plans to what to do about his enemies and who to avoid making enemies with. He muttered about the ocean currents and the animals in the forests and the demonization of fear.

“Fear is about survival,” he once told Sandy, sneering as he stared toward the horizon at the mouth of his caverns. “Fear can break any being of light and strength and that is all fear ever will be to anyone. Everyone fails to remember that fear is what stops children from leaping off of the battlements, believing that they can fly, fear is what stops women from petting sleeping bears in the woods, fear is what stops young girls and boys from walking into the dark where all sorts of beasts await their tender flesh and shrill screams. Fear is what creates courage as it is only by conquering fear that one can find courage and yet do you know what the people say about me, Sandria? They say that I am a monster, that I come in the dead of night and take the lives of their young ones and old ones, that I have harmed hundreds, no, thousands, that I am responsible for horrible deeds and great plagues, and it is all because they refuse to take responsibility for their own actions, do you understand?

I am only responsible for fear and nightmares, the things that terrify and test – I do not strive to shorten lives or create disease and poverty. That is what the people do to themselves, yet they need to blame someone, and so they blame me. I have led many to their deaths, but not all that I have been accused of.”

He had paused and his expression had become ancient and sorrowful.

“Then again, perhaps I am a monster.”

Then and in the present, Sandy had had no answer for that for Pitchener was indeed monstrous. Was he evil, though?

No. No, but she knew him capable of evil deeds, and so she had taken his hands in hers and had pressed soft kisses to the center of his palms.

He had stared down at her for some time before he had kneeled before her, his proud and stoic figure bending forward so that he could whisper into her ear.

“If I am,” he had whispered, and she had felt her heart race, as this was at a time before they had come together as lovers and had been tentative friends. His next words would change all of that.

“I am your monster.” He had pressed a searing kiss to the corner of her mouth. “And you are my dream.”

He had been her first and she dare say that he would be her last, as she had made him vow that she would be his. Her race was eternal, though not immortal, and she had plans to keep this dragon for herself until the world had faded to dust in the black velvet of space and beyond that. 

~::~

“Sandria, are you quite done?” Pitchener was, yet again, complaining. 

This was familiar to Sandy and so she ignored him. She fluffed her hair, making each curl even wilder than before. She fixed her gown so that the empire waist fit snugly beneath her heavy bosom and was quite pleased with the effect. She finally tugged on her golden slippers and stood to see herself fully. 

She was a very beautiful woman. She was small and curvy, her face full and round, her golden eyes large and tranquil in her face, and her hair was thick and untamable. 

She smiled at herself and felt even more beautiful for it.

“Oh, is that all? Are you certain you have nothing else to do? Are you certain you do not want to stitch a new cloak for yourself as well?” Pitchener drawled.

Sandria offered him a sly look through the mirror and decided to pull her hair back into a braid. 

Pitchener huffed. “You spite me, my dear. I fear I may forget to give you your gift, your grooming is so endless.”

Quite abruptly, there was a small golden woman floating level with his gaze, her plump arms around his shoulders while she smiled becomingly at him, far too innocent to not be a ruse. 

“I must have already forgotten,” Pitchener told her. “I cannot recall what I was going to give you at all.”

She kissed him quite soundly.

“That helps you not at all,” he murmured. “Now I have forgotten a great deal of things.” He traced her bottom lip with her thumb. 

She pouted and he finally conceded.

“Oh, alright. Go sit.” He gestured to her chair and she joyfully took a seat. 

There was a long moment where they stared at one another, he stoic and she patient. At last, he approached her until he was a step away from leaning over her. At the last possible moment, he sank to one knee and looked greatly as if he was about to swear his allegiance to royalty.

“You told me many years ago that I would be your husband,” he told her. “I laughed until the caverns shook and you huffed all the way back to your kingdom and cursed my name until I kidnapped you again. I know of no one who would oversee our marriage, and, in time, when the customs of people change yet again, marriage itself will also change, so I am not too concerned as of yet for that. However, I felt it would be appropriate to take the first step. I am no man and you are of the stars, yet it is still popularly upheld that women be left intact and unsullied until they lay in their husband’s bed. You have lain in my bed many a time without the promise of my making an honest woman of you and this is most likely due to your incredible courage and also somewhat to your stubbornness. You have stayed with me through these years, tethered here only by your love for me… and my deep devotion to you. Allow me to make this promise to you now so that I may be held to it for eons to come until the day does come where we will stand, hand in hand, before the altar or any representation of equal meaning.” He reached into the black folds of his cloak and pulled from the darkness a ring.

It was a glossy black ring, the sort that Jackson wore on his left hand. And yet there was something different about it, something she had to squint to see. 

The ring was fashioned from one of Pitchener’s scales, Sandy’s eyes told her, and she saw the glow of his luminescence captured forever in its surface. 

“Sandria Mansnoozie,” Pitchener began, looking self-assured even in this to the point where Sandria was not sure if she wanted to cry or hit him in the face, “would you one day dare to give me the pleasure of being my wife and in the meanwhile simply existing in close quarters with one another?”

She was nodding furiously, symbols flickering too quickly to understand over her head, as she held out her hand. 

He kissed her wrist as he slid the ring on her fourth finger and whispered against her flesh, “Forever now, Sandria. There will be no escape for you.”

She laughed soundlessly.

From the beginning, there had been no escape for him.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by http://bringsyoudreams.tumblr.com/post/69517871302/blacksand-au-suggested-by-shiningsilverarmor.


End file.
